The Wombat File Is Yours to Keep

The Wombat has been very very very very busy. Because of this. See all the posts marked "LitEditor" and you'll have some idea why.

Just enough time in between tasks to pepper-spray your brain with this week's cognitive defoliant. Ready?

The elder was born in New York, the younger in Idaho. They shared a profession. Their lifespans overlapped for only seven years, but between the two of them, their joint experiences spanned the bulk of the 19th and 20th centuries. Of the former, the latter said "His crudity is an exceeding great stench but it is America."

Name the two men.

First correct answer posted to comments wins a zip-file of user icons deemed inappropriate for use on a family website. No Googling or doing one of those SETI-style distributed computing projects where everybody's screensaver works to eliminate the nearly-infinite number of possible but incorrect answers. One guess (at both names) per comment, but comment as often as you like.

Posted by BT at 11:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

The lateness of the hour and the abominable spectre of tomorrow's workload means that your dear Wombat, fortified now only by his evening bowl of consomme and a healthy shot of zucchini schnapps, must forgo the long-winded preambles with which he has tested your patience of late. On to this week's skull-sweater:

In 1874, William Halstead graduates from Yale, through most of college he is interested more in athletics than in academics. However, in his senior year he becomes interested in a text by John C. Dalton, which sets him on his professional course In 1881, he saves his sister's life, and later that year, possibly his mother's as well. In 1884 he becomes addicted to cocaine; in later years, he attempts to detox, and winds up addicted to morphine, although few around him suspect it. In 1889, working with his colleague and future wife Caroline Hampton, he attempts to address the problem of the dermatitis she suffers due to their working conditions. As a result, he creates an innovation that literally saves thousands of lives, and is still in use all over the world today.

What was Halstead's innovation?

First correct answer to comments wins a copy of the rare coffee table book Really Cute Pictures of Bear Cubs Taken Just Before the Inevitable Surprise Return of the Mother Bear and the Predictable Mauling that Ensued (Mauling Press, 1992). No Googling, and no Barney Google. For that matter, no Gasoline Alley, either (and just to be safe, steer clear of Snuffy Smith, at least for the next six hours). One guess per comment, but comment as often as you like

Posted by BT at 11:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (22)

You've had that moment, right? Where "Escape (The Piña Colada Song)" gets in your head, and you find yourself kind of letting it unspool mentally in there, and then you get to the part where he sings "I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon/And cut through all this red tape," with that special extra emphasis on those last four notes. And you burst out laughing in front of other people and it seems like you're really, really losing it this time?

Posted by BT at 11:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

He also has a way cooler blog. How much cooler? He recently interviewed Andrew Scott, the drummer for Novia Scotia's mighty power pop quartet Sloan. The subject? Cassoulet soup, among other things.

As I said to him, the other day, it all makes me feel old and out of it, but in a good kinda way.

Posted by BT at 11:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Quizmaster International Telephonic Network
Trivial Crisis Hotline
Call Log 10132006
0536EDT

####BEGIN TRANSCRIPT####

CALLER 1: (Yawns) Um, Hello...

CALLER 2: Boxjam.

CALLER 1: (sighs) Wombat.

CALLER 2: How come we've never had a question about Don Ho?

CALLER 1: Uh...Don Ho...

CALLER 2: Hawaiian singer. "Tiny Bubbles."

CALLER 1: I mean, I know who he is...

CALLER 2: He was on that Brady Bunch where they went to Hawaii, right?

CALLER 1: If you say so...

CALLER 2: I mean, there's some kind of quiz question material in that, right?

CALLER 1: Um...do you know what time it is?

CALLER 2: You mean that Chicago song? Did Don Ho sing backup or something? That would be interesting...

CALLER 1: No, I mean, do you know what time it actually is now? Because, it's still, you know, pre-dawn in Chicago.

CALLER 2: Well, I couldn't sleep.

CALLER 1: Yeah, well, this hotline thing. That Jeopardy-theme-song ring is set awfully loud. To tell you the truth, I didn't think it really worked. I've never even opened the case before. Why didn't you just email me?

CALLER 2: Sometimes James and I use it. We call each other and watch Stargate SG-1 and pretend we're the robots from Mystery Science Theater making fun of it. Hey, I think there's a conference call function -- You should join us sometime.

CALLER 1: Um, well...

CALLER 2: I get to be Tom Servo.

CALLER 1: OK...

CALLER 2: Anyway, back to Don Ho. It's good, right? I mean, there's a lot there. He used to be a fighter pilot, did you know that?

CALLER 1: No.

CALLER 2: Yes! He did! It's in Wikipedia, for God's sake!

CALLER 1: I mean, no, I didn't know. Look, Bill, I don't really see it.

CALLER 2: WHat do you mean? He injected stem cells into his heart! In Thailand!

CALLER 1: I'm sorry.

CALLER 2: ...yeah...OK...

CALLER 1: Was that your idea for this week?

CALLER 2: Yeah. So it's lame?

CALLER 1: Yes.

CALLER 2: The thing is...I don't have anything else.

CALLER 1: You want me to come up with something?

CALLER 1: Um...yes.

CALLER 2: I'll send you something by email. And, Wombat?

CALLER 1: Yes?

CALLER 2: Call me again at this hour and you won't like what you see in the next Doodle. I can make things very hot for you in the web comics world.

CALLER 1: Understood. And, Boxjam?

CALLER 2: Yes?

CALLER 1: Thanks.

##########END TRANSCRIPT#########

Today's quiz comes courtesy of the very generous Boxjam.

In 1961, this artist's recording won the Grammy for Album of the Year. The previous two years the winners had been Henry Mancini and Frank Sinatra, respectively. The following year the recipient was Judy Garland.

Not long thereafter, this artist received another award, in the presentation of which the board said, " [the artist] has wounded, if not slain, many of the dragons that stalk our society."

What is the artist's name?

First correct answer posted to comments wins a ASCII-art portrait commemorating Don Ho's Brady Bunch appearance. No Googling or slaying any of the dragons that continue to stalk our society. One guess per comment, but please comment as often as you like.

Posted by BT at 07:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (27)

Our Iggy, sporting the other Iggy.

That other Iggy's excellent concert rider.

(Rider hilarity notice courtesy of the ever-watchful Art.)

Also, according to Wikipedia, Mr. Osterberg will be portrayed in a forthcoming bio-pic by Frodo Baggins. Really.

Posted by BT at 07:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

In the meantime, Rory offers you the Beatles discography in limerick form.

Posted by BT at 11:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Outside: Stygian night, no moon and a mournful wind. An ancient and gloomy manor house, situated precariously atop a sea-spattered cliff.

Unseen until the moment of his rising, your host emerges from a deep chair, closing a large book bound in curiously worked leather. Its title, you can see as he lays it aside, is A Key to the Work of Thomas Kinkade, "The Painter of Light (TM)."

Good evening, my friend. Or, should I say, good morning? The hour is both late and early. Not too early to share some of this glorious cognac, I hope? Ah, I thought not. Your reputation as a lover of good things precedes you. I see you can appreciate its subtle bouquet. Well then -- to fate! The unimaginable workings of the universe, the inevitable collision of our destinies!

Ah. You'll have another? I insist. Now, please, make yourself comfortable.

You wonder, I suppose, that I seem so prepared for your arrival. Indeed, I have long expected it. You were aware, of course, that you were followed in Marseilles. That, of course, was little more than a formality, since the hotel staff would, under the slightest of persuasions, have revealed the fact that your luggage was all being forwarded to Riga, while your correspondence (intercepted, naturally, by an easily-corrupted postal clerk) revealed your true destination in the islands to the north of Zanzibar.

Would you care for a cigar? No? Do you mind if I...well, where were we -- ah, yes. I was long gone from Pemba by the time of your arrival, but I am ashamed to say that I failed, there, to cover my tracks properly. I suppose it's my age showing. In any event, you made your discoveries, and interviewed a very foolish young man, who, I am sorry to say, will never again taste that American soft drink he was so fond of. Was it "Dewy Hill?" Some repulsive concoction. In any event, full fathom five thy informant lies, and so on and so forth. But the damage was done, and you have proven, I must say, terrier-like in your refusal to -- excuse me -- yes, Smedley? No, we shan't be requiring anything more this evening. You may leave us -- but do go around the kennels and see that the dogs are let out upon the grounds.

Smedley's a marvel, isn't he? Entirely clockwork -- I designed him myself. Not much of a conversationalist, but he's perfectly reliable, and sometimes, on a rainy afternoon he'll sit at the piano down in the ballroom and play. Only knows "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star," but he does pound it out with such conviction! And of course, he's a ruthless killer. He's the one who got your friend with the eyepatch. All in the line of business, of course.

Speaking of business. This is all very pleasant, in its way, but there's no avoiding the subject any longer, is there? You've come here to find out. You've braved every obstacle I've thrown in your way, and now I suppose you believe yourself entitled to something. And perhaps, my friend, perhaps you are.

Today's quiz question:

Its first recorded mention in English is in the 1740s. The Blackshirts in Mussolini's Italy used it as part of their campaign of terror against political opponents. Two characters in a musical set in Edwardian England sing of it disapprovingly. Its use in the automotive world prompted its adoption into a well-known brand name in 1930 -- the brand still exists, although the substance is no longer a part of the product. It is speculated that its earliest uses may have been among the ancient Egyptians, based on findings in tombs.

What is this substance?

First correct answer posted to comments gets a fifteen-minute head start before Smedley lets the largest mastiff out. Unless you're a first-rate rock climber with a confederate waiting in a boat down below, your best bet's the swampy ground directly to the southeast. Watch out for quicksand, though. No Googling or even thinking of Googling. Or Googling "thinking." One guess per comment, but comment as often as you like.

Posted by BT at 12:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (14)

Once again I come to my wombatly duties with little light left in my candle. In lieu of saying anything meaningful about, oh, let's see... the shame I feel for my country on a nearly hourly basis these days? I'll instead toss off a few squibs:

Frequent (and recent) quiz-dominator Scraps provides food for thought with this post about the concept of the "guilty pleasure." While I applaud the strength of conviction that springs from the Scrapsian breast, and even endorse his response to a certain degree, I'm not quite willing to toss this concept into that fabled, and jam-packed historical dustbin just yet. It is true that we may too-reflexively kowtow (and reflexive kowtowing is the worst kowtowing, being as it is so hard on the lumbar region) in the direction of Received Wisdom, i.e. Cool, when we categorize our enjoyment of (for example), a majestically overblown prog-rock epic (Yes's Close to the Edge, let's say) as a "guilty pleasure"; whereas our veneration of Fear of Music or Kind of Blue is given no such ridiculous modifier. The "guilt" in such formulations, sayeth Scraps, is a shameful self-abasement before the Altar of Hip, and as such should be spurned by strong-minded people.

I'll just note that (a) it's hard to counter-argue in music, and easier for me to counter-argue using film, television, or even books. There are narratives and spectacles which I experience as both (a) pleasurable at the time, and (b) disagreeable after consumption. These include the novels of Tom Clancy¹, various action movies (especially when seen on TV, for the seventh or eighth time), and ER. These entertainments, often involving enough, yield an immediate sense of torpor and ill-ease, not unlike that produced by having too much popcorn in one sitting, or drinking beer too early in the day. I feel guilty and crappy after having experienced them; but there is no less some pleasure attached. Hence, a guilty pleasure.

But I'm damned if I know what the musical equivalent would be. In that realm, I find it easier to agree: when I call something a guilty pleasure, I'm probably imagining that the other person doesn't find my taste refined enough, and am trying to hedge by anticipating their aesthetic condemnation by pre-supplying my own. I hope I no longer do it very often, and I hereby pledge to stop altogether if possible.

******

Speaking of music, I was listening today to John and Beverly Martyn's album The Road to Ruin (which I picked up because I heard it playing in a record store, and was immediately taken with it; I've since learned a bit more about Martyn and understand it's not considered one of his best. Which suggest I should really investigate the others, because I like this one a lot), and I was struck again by one of the songs near the end of the record, "Say What You Can."

This song -- a somewhat energetic (on pretty mellow record), piano-driven number, has a sound I sometimes feel I hear in music of the 1970s, and usually not from much earlier or later (though perhaps there are a plenitude of examples I just don't know of or can't think of right now). I think of it as having affinities with glam, but more in some of the mood conveyed than in anything else; call it "Decadent Boogie." No artist I can think of exclusively specializes in this kind of stuff, but it seems almost like a vein or theme running through a lot of different peoples' songs. I think of piano, often some saxophone, in addition to the guitars 'n' drums that we think of as the standard for post-Beatles rock bands. And a sense of offbeat darkness, quietly informing what is by the 70's a not-bleeding-edge kind of sound. This is not the blooze of the Faces or the Stones, but something more sidelong and quirky. Some Warren Zevon, some early Kate Bush ("Saxophone Song" and "James and the Cold Gun" from The Kick Inside), parts of Hunky Dory and Transformer seem to fill the bill.

This is seeming more and more specious as I type it. Is it just some weird personal category I'm trying to define -- and therefore can't, since it's related to an inchoate emotional response I can't seem to articulate? Probably. But if not, would you let me know? Thanks.

*****

Finally, more in the chronicle of the Madness that Consumes Brooklyn. Look in -- and read the comments -- if you dare. It's a spectacle of 360-degree wrongheadedness of a kind that seems particularly prevalent in our neighborhood. But don't blame me if you're sucked into it. You'll read just one more missing-the-point comment. And another, and another. Like tortilla chips, these opinions are addictive, but instead of being fried, they're half-baked. A guilty pleasure? You bet.

¹Not so much anymore, really, but for a time in the early '90s Clancy was a definitely guilty pleasure of mine. Explaining my past fascination with Clancy would require not merely a separate essay, but a separate website. I'll note this much here: The Hunt for Red October, originally published by the Naval Institute Press, made its rounds in the naval officer community long before the author was widely famous, and I was handed it by my father. The part of me that loves descriptions of "how it works" was instantly hooked. I managed to retain my sense of fascination through Red Storm Rising, which brilliantly played out a (manifestly absurd, but wonderfully plotted) fantasy of World War Three with no nukes, and then -- with less keen interest -- Patriot Games, The Cardinal of the Kremlin, and so on. Eventually, the jingoism and homophobia rose to levels that could no longer be pretended out of consciousness, and I read Executive Orders with what can only be called Engrossed Revulsion.

Posted by BT at 12:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)